Seven Minutes In Heaven
by H. S. Hines
Summary: B'Elanna wakes in the nightmare suffered by many of the crew. Where is everyone? (Femslash content, drama and horror, short). Complete. Please R&R.


Disclaimer: I do not own Voyager, B'Elanna Torres, Seven of Nine, Tom Paris, Miral, Tuvok, Neelix or any other Paramount-owned character or object. I _think_ I own my imagination, but I may be wrong. This story has some F/F content in it, so if you don't like that, don't read it.

Code: B/7  
Author: H. S. Hines  
Rating: PG  
Feedback welcome and appreciated.

**Seeven Minutes in Heaven**

Someone was screaming.

B'Elanna shot upright, her body drenched in sweat, the heat from her body steaming in the cold air.

'Cold?' There was no reason the room should be cold—she had fallen asleep with the temperature set to 78 degrees Fahrenheit. The screaming stopped, abruptly. B'Elanna focused her eyes on the empty bed next to her. 'Where is Tom?'

She slid from the sheets, shuddering as the icy material glided along sensitive parts of her bare skin. She slid on the clothes rumpled on the floor, not bothering to find a clean uniform. Immediately, she ran to Miral's room. The sight made her vision swim.

The dark room was torn, the crib laying in a mess on the floor.

Frantic, B'Elanna ripped through the chaos, looking for her baby… nothing. Not a baby, not pieces of a baby. Somewhere between sheer terror, relief, anger and confusion, B'Elanna found her way out of her quarters. She ran through the dark corridor, her bare feet slapping the frozen deck beneath them. How had she slept through this? Where was everyone? The ship felt empty, desolate. A sickly green light was illuminating her path.

Green.

B'Elanna tried to stop so quickly that her feet missed the ground and she hit the deck, hard. Her breath whooshed out of her lungs, painfully and it took her a moment to focus on the scene in front of her. The palor of death hung over Tom's face while veins bulged and… _things_… moved under his skin like it was water. Then one burst the surface.

B'Elanna yelled and stood, turning the other direction and running, running as fast as her adrenaline powered legs could take her. Far too soon, they felt light and insubstantial. As soon as she began questioning her trust in her legs, they failed and she collapsed in a heap.

The Borg. Borg. Borg. _Borg._

She got up and began running, weak and staggering, in shock. As she ran, she passed crewmen, people she had worked with—lived with—for the past several years, sitting, standing… Their faces numb, empty—waiting to die… as though they already had.

None of them seemed to see her, but she ran from them anyway. Her throat ached, her hearts screamed in pain, her lungs burned and yet, she felt weightless and cold. She might have run until she died, but she saw someone, huddling away from a new drone—Tuvok had been assimilated.

His dark hand reached for the pale skin in front of him, his fingers forming the Vulcan mind meld position. B'Elanna didn't think; she acted. She grabbed onto the hand pressed against the woman's face and fell.

It almost seemed like forever, and then, she stopped. It was sudden, as though she had never fallen, or had awakened from a falling dream. She looked around at the Borg corridors of this mind and knew immediately in whose she had landed: Seven of Nine.

As though she had summoned her, Seven appeared before her. B'Elanna expected her to be disheveled or distressed, but Seven was calm. Tuvok stood behind a forcefield, trying to break through.

"May I help you, Lieutenant?" Seven asked politely. B'Elanna blinked and swallowed dryly.

"I was trying to help you," she replied, at a loss. She now felt the pressure, like a headache, from Tuvok trying to enter her mind as well.

"I didn't know you cared," Seven replied, without apparent feeling. B'Elanna didn't know what to say. The image of the torn nursery filled the walls and Seven's features softened. "They will put her in a maturation chamber," she said simply, not knowing what would be appropriate condolences.

"Why didn't they take me?" B'Elanna cried.

"Would you prefer they had?" Seven asked gently. B'Elanna shook her head.

"No," she whispered. "I would prefer they all died." The last was said with such vehemence that Seven startled.

"I do not blame you, Lieutenant, but I am afraid we are both in a position that we cannot recover from without-."

B'Elanna tumbled into the wall, her shoulder jarring, shooting a pain up and down her arm, but otherwise okay. Then she had to repress a laugh at the sight in front of her—Neelix was fending off Tuvok… with a frying pan! The laugh immediately went sour when Tuvok ripped the pan from Neelix's hand and struck him. But then she felt triumph when a beam of light snaked from Seven's hand, knocking out Tuvok, who hadn't developed shields yet.

B'Elanna turned to thank Neelix, but he was laying a few feet away, his head at an odd angle. She felt her insides burn, fury and desperation warring with one another. She was glad her redundant stomachs made it almost impossible for her to get nauseous—she had been so once, and never wanted to feel it again.

The green light grew brighter and B'Elanna realized they were trapped, the ship almost completely assimilated and she turned to Seven.

"What do we do?"

"We will soon be assimilated," Seven replied, then her expression grew tired and B'Elanna heard the faintest sigh. "Resistance is futile."

"What do we do?" B'Elanna whispered this time.

"I believe that in situations where there is no hope," Seven said slowly, "It is human tradition to confess one's true feelings to one another." Seven took a breath and faced B'Elanna, reaching out and taking her hand. B'Elanna felt the warmth and sweat of another living being, a human hand. It was simultaneously rough and soft, the metal cold as the deck plating. Somewhere, there was a hull breach. "B'Elanna Torres-Paris, I have had feelings for you for exactly two years, three months, four days, six hours and eight minutes. I have been unable to express these feelings due to their inappropriate nature and timing."

"And this timing is better somehow?" B'Elanna asked, slightly shocked, slightly numb. Right now, all she cared about was the contact of another person.

"If we are to be assimilated, to, as individuals, die, I would like to make a last request."

"Shoot," B'Elanna replied.

"Kiss me, B'Elanna." B'Elanna looked at the blue eyes, so different from her own, and saw the vulnerability, the expectation of rejection. Then she closed her eyes and touched the other woman's lips with her own. She was surprised. Seven had soft lips, sweet as candy, with the softest tang of sweat from her upper lip. She felt the strong embrace of another woman and wondered, briefly what her life could have been like with Seven. Could they have been friends without life or death circumstances? How much tension between them had been romantic? If she had thought of it, would she have chosen this life over the one she had?

She was never to know.

They stood there, locked together, warm bodies heating the cold air, sweet mouths pressed together, hands caressing one another when everything came to an end.

Two of Five stepped from their alcove, dismissing the 'individual' thought to deletion… for the hundredth time. Somehow, it managed to escape to haunt them again, and again, and again….

_The End._


End file.
